


A Truth to Tell

by StarsandJellyfish



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Elf Jaskier | Dandelion, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, First Kiss, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26259892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsandJellyfish/pseuds/StarsandJellyfish
Summary: Jaskier has been travelling alone since he and Geralt parted ways during the dragon hunt, and he's been surviving fine on his own. But this time, it's wet, he's cold, and days of journeying away from the next village. Which is, of course, when Geralt runs into him, while he's in a pickle with his glamour, and a secret he's kept for twenty-two years, one that is probably only going to strain their relationship further, will probably come out.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 42
Kudos: 870





	A Truth to Tell

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, 
> 
> I know I'm a bit late for the party, but I hope you enjoy this work. It's my first piece in the Witcher fandom, so please be kind. I've only seen the Netflix show fully, though I am reading the books and have seen parts of the game (mostly Lambert and Eskel, so I could learn their characters) , so I'm really sorry if something is wrong. (Also, I'm pretty sure Jaskier would do better than this, when parted from Geralt, but this idea hit me yesterday, and wouldn't leave me alone, so...) 
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment, but please be kind! It is my first Witcher fic, and Geralt (at least, Netflix Geralt, is hard to write). 
> 
> Like I said, I hope you enjoy this, and thank you so much for reading! :)

A Truth to Tell

Raindrops beat down upon his coniferous shelter, driving through his thin cloak and soaking Jaskier to the bone. Fingers freezing, white, numbed, he tucked them under the edges of the material, hoping for some small pocket of warmth to reveal itself. No such luck.

Shivering, teeth chattering violently together, Jaskier huddled further into himself, knees curled to his chest. Water ran down his face and dripped into his eyes, leaving him to blink foggily into the twilight gloom.

On his back, strapped tightly under his cloak, his lute cowered in its case. Distantly, the worry of water-damage ruining his beautiful instrument poked at his mind, but Jaskier was too muddled to focus on it. He’d been travelling for days, and while he wasn’t too hungry, he was incredibly cold.

Ever since Geralt had yelled at him on that mountain, told him to leave, Jaskier had been surviving by himself. Though it hadn’t been pleasant, he’d been building fires, cooking his own catches, sleeping with one eye open and avoiding Nilfgaardian soldiers. Now, stuck in the downpour, he was exhausted, alone and miserable.

Being an elf – a secret he’d kept well from Geralt, though one he regretted keeping now – he was skilled at surviving in nature. While he gave off an air of incompetence, it was all in his act. Of course he could hunt. Of course he could fight. What use would an elf be that didn’t have those skills? The differences was, between Jaskier and his people, that Jaskier didn’t _like_ hunting things, he didn’t _like_ hiding from people, and he certainly didn’t like the brutality of sword-craft.

For him, it was far better to be free, to run wild with his emotions, follow their insistent commands. If someone insulted Geralt, Jaskier would smash a tankard of ale over their head, wasting it, causing Geralt to sigh, but in those cat-slit eyes he would see some small kernel of gratitude. But never again.

When his emotions swirled in protective fury, Jaskier was never afraid to throw himself into it, be it jumping up and down, waving his arms above his head and shouting, or throwing rocks to distract both monsters and men. Anything for Geralt. But never again.

No, never again, because Jaskier had been a burden on the man he loved for the last time. Well, at least through Geralt’s eyes. To Jaskier, he had been massively unfair. None of Geralt’s poor choices could be blamed on him, and while he himself could have chosen a better time to talk to Geralt, the witcher’s response certainly hadn’t been called for.

Even so, Jaskier had allowed that his witcher needed space, needed time to cool down. So of course he had given it. He had gone to the others, got the full story from them, and continued down the mountain at a reasonably slow pace, one that was believable for a human bard. After a few days, Jaskier had believed, Geralt would catch up, would insist in his own gruff way that Jaskier should follow him. That didn’t happen.

Instead, Jaskier had waited for days in the town at the foot of the mountain, had spent even longer still wandering between the closest villages, waiting for some sign that Geralt was looking for him. No such sign came.

After weeks of waiting, he had given up, had turned tail and fled back on the road himself, falling into his elven habits with no-one to hide his true nature from. Now, any who saw him would be surprised, certainly, watching a seemingly-human bard – he kept his glamour well, held in place by a talisman around his neck – surviving the wilderness with such ease.

Though, trapped in the rain icy enough to make even an elf shiver, Jaskier supposed he wasn’t surviving the wilderness with ease at all.

While he had the skills, the conditions weren’t favourable. How could he start a fire in the middle of the woods, when water was near literally _pouring_ from the sky? There was no way the wood would light, and even if it did, it wouldn’t stay lit. Nowhere nearby was rocky enough to provide caves to shelter in, and none of the trees had a thick enough canopy that they would shelter him.

No, Jaskier was left to huddle under his thinning cloak, one that he should have replaced ages ago, unsuitable for winter as it was.

Letting out a sigh, he watched disinterestedly as his breath curled in grey whirls before him. Breathing in through his nose, all he could smell was the damp scent of the forest. Nothing that could be considered prey was nearby, no birds hiding their heads under their wings, no deer huddling together for warmth.

Alone and defeated, barely managing to force his fingers to move, he curled his grip around the amulet dangling between his collar bones. _This_ was what had helped him create a persona that could live amongst the humans. _This_ was what had allowed him to start his young elven life without fear. _This_ was what gave him the space to be who he was. _This_ was what allowed him to become such a burden on Geralt. 

With a frustrated cry, Jaskier pulled the charm down with a jerk. The cord snapped, and he threw it out into the forest, enchanted stone and all. It landed amongst the undergrowth with a dull squelch of mud. Without careful searching, Jaskier knew he would never find it again. Not that it mattered. With the cord broken, the magic in it had fizzled out, glowing purple as it dissipated.

Alone in the trees, dead leaves cushioning him, an elf leaned back against rough bark and let a tear slip out of his eye.

Cursing himself for being someone who followed his emotions, who never thought anything through before doing it, not really, he bit his lip, willed his tears back. Burying his face in his hands, he couldn’t help but marvel at the change he felt, though only distantly. His glamour had been so good it had fooled even him, making him not only merely look like a human, but feel like one to the touch, too, even his own.

Stuck in the forest, his skin was almost icy, smoother than a human’s skin could ever possibly be. His cheekbones were ever-so-slightly sharper, the teeth catching on his lips just that little bit more deadly, canines like fangs in his mouth. Under his hood, he could feel as his pointed ears caught on the sopping fabric, and eyes that he knew were almost electric blue peeked up from under his cowl, watching for any signs of movement. Only dull silver drops were moving, driving with prejudice into every surface they encountered, even him.

Gathering the fabric of his now-loose clothes around him – his body was slimmer, in elven form – Jaskier tried to wring them out, giving himself something to do, even if the endeavour was pointless. Why try to dry clothes that were still outside in the pouring rain?

Giving it up as a lost cause, Jaskier bowed his head, touching his chin to his chest. Ears sharp, he listened to the patter of the rain, pretending it was the sound of applause.

Something heavy draped over his back, muffling the sound.

Letting out a soft, surprised cry, Jaskier opened his eyes and blinked in confusion. Beside him, a pair of boots were sinking into the mulch. A very familiar pair of boots.

“Geralt?” he whispered, keeping his head down. Cursing himself for breaking his glamour in a fit of anger, he tried to hold himself in as human a way as possible. Without seeing Geralt’s face, he didn’t know if he had succeeded. “Is that you?”

“Hmm,” a deep voice hummed. Definitely Geralt’s.

“What are you doing here?” Jaskier asked, fingers peeking out of the folds of his own cloak to tighten on the edges of Geralt’s. Hoping the witcher hadn’t spied his slightly slenderer, slightly more elegant fingers, Jaskier pulled both cloaks tighter around himself, shivering still, but already feeling warmer. “Is there a beast of some sort this way?”

The witcher didn’t say anything, though he didn’t deny Jaskier’s suggestion either. With nothing to go on, he couldn’t help but wish to see Geralt’s face. But that was something he couldn’t do, wasn’t it? Because Jaskier had no glamour on anymore, and he’d already angered Geralt enough. Showing his true face, showing that he’d lied to him for twenty-two years, that would only serve to make things worse between them.

Instead, Jaskier turned his face away, blinking through the rain and the strands of hair falling into his eyes, only to spot Roach, with a young girl sitting on her back, looking just as drenched and miserable as Jaskier felt. Only her wide eyes, widening further when they fixed on Jaskier’s too-bright ones, told him that she was far more aware, far more awake, than Jaskier himself was.

“You found her?” Jaskier felt himself asking, lips sticking together with the dampness of his skin. “Your child surprise?”

Again, Geralt said nothing, though from the wet sounds of crunching leaves, Jaskier suspected he’d lowered himself to sit next to him. When a hand reached out to rest on his shoulder, causing him to jump, Jaskier knew he’d been correct.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, voice deep. Refusing to look away from the girl on the horse, Jaskier debated whether he should knock the witcher’s hand off his shoulder or let it stay. Several minutes passed in silence, before Geralt spoke again, a tad impatiently, “Jaskier.” Then, when he still didn’t move, Geralt said, “Please.”

It was the ‘please’ that did it, spurring Jaskier into twisting to face the witcher. Keeping his brow tipped towards the floor, Jaskier shifted so his body was angled more towards Geralt than Roach. He still wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t reveal his true face to that man. He had always been planning to tell Geralt, of course, but he was going to do it his way. He hadn’t ever suspected he would be stumbled across by the man, in the middle of a forest, in between two very distant villages, which were three days travel apart at best.

“Jaskier, look at me,” Geralt urged, hand still firmly on Jaskier’s shoulder. Making up his mind, Jaskier reached up with trembling fingers, aiming to knock them against Geralt’s wrist, dislodging his palm. Instead, to his own surprise and horror, his fingers wrapped around Geralt’s vambrace, numb and shivering as they were. Shaking his head, the material of his dual hoods swaying with the movement, Jaskier refused. “Please.”

“You’ll hate me,” he whispered, licking his lips. In his chest, his heart was already beating harder than it should have been. Geralt could probably hear it. By the Gods, he could probably smell something different about Jaskier’s scent, if the ever-present aroma of damp leaves and wet mud didn’t cover it. “Don’t make me.”

“I won’t,” Geralt promised, though Jaskier found it hard to believe. Especially after what happened on the mountain. “Jaskier.”

“You will,” he insisted, fingers digging deeply into Geralt’s vambraces. The man was wearing armour, even now. So tightly did Jaskier hold, that he felt the bones in his fingertips beginning to ache, and Geralt must have realised by now that he was holding on with an unnatural pressure for a human. Still, he kept his face ducked, lowered. Tears were escaping the corners of his eyes, and he couldn’t let Geralt see. “You already do.”

Geralt stayed silent at that, confirming Jaskier’s suspicions. Teeth gritted, sharp points of his canines digging into his own gums, giving him that distraction he needed to stop his tears, Jaskier shoved at Geralt’s arm, dropped his wrist. The witcher let go of him, though from the tense lines of his body, Jaskier figured he had hurt the man somehow. Then again, had he ever _really_ been able to read Geralt, or had it all been his own arrogance leading him to assume that?

“I knew it,” letting out a bitter laugh, Jaskier got his feet under him, rising to his full height. When he looked down, face hidden deep within the recesses of his hoods, Jaskier cursed himself internally. Geralt was looking up at him in confusion, and Jaskier knew why. While he couldn’t see Jaskier’s thinner frame, hidden as it was by the folds of his cloaks, he could certainly see that Jaskier was ever so slightly taller now, almost exactly the same height as Geralt, rather than just a few inches shorter. Kicking himself internally, he stumbled back, barely righting himself as his ankle hooked on a hidden root. “I knew it.” Closing his eyes, Jaskier continued backing away. “Goodbye, Geralt.”

“Jaskier,” the witcher cut in again, raising to his own feet. Peeking at his face, Jaskier could have cried at the pain he saw there, but he didn’t understand it. Why was Geralt hurting, when he’d been the one to send Jaskier away, to reveal what he really thought of him. “Wait.”

“Why?” Jaskier asked, needing one good reason. Only one good reason, and he would give Geralt anything, anything he required, anything he wanted. He loved that man, still, even after everything, and what he wanted most of all was to fall into his arms. But that could never happen, not with a witcher that refused to even acknowledge they were friends. Though Jaskier supposed he knew why that was, now; they had never been friends in the first place. “Why should I wait, Geralt? Tell me. Use your words.”

“I can’t,” ground out the witcher, teeth gritted in obvious frustration. “I can’t—” Huffing out through his nose, Geralt closed his eyes and bowed his head. Strands of water-slicked hair fell forwards over his shoulders, and his breath clouded in the air as he spoke, “Jaskier, I’m sorry.”

“What?” That hadn’t been something he had been expecting the witcher to say, not at all. Blinking rivulets of water out of his eyes, he studied the man, bedraggled as he was. Two swords were strapped to his back, the same as always, but his face looked thinner, more gaunt. Shadows smudged under his eyes, and he held himself the same way he always did when he was exhausted. Surprise coursed through Jaskier, sparking in his blood, heating it just a little, just enough to set his fingers to tingling. “Geralt, what?”

“I said I’m sorry,” the witcher growled, scowling down at his own feet. “What I said on the mountain was wr—I shouldn’t have. Said it, I mean.” Struggling to get his sentences out, Geralt made an aborted gesture, as if he were hoping to pluck the words he needed from the air. “Jaskier, you _are_.”

His final sentence confused Jaskier to no end. What was he? Pursing his lips, resisting the urge to fold his arms across his chest – he didn’t want to come off as petulant, nor ungrateful, not when it was so obvious Geralt was really trying here – Jaskier scuffed his foot on the ground, curled his fingers into the wrinkles of his leggings.

Taking a careful step forward, Jaskier ducked his head enough that he could peek at Geralt’s down-turned expression. Golden eyes were narrowed in frustration, brows lowered with the witcher’s struggle, and Jaskier almost took pity on him. Mouth open, ready to tell the witcher that all was forgiven, all would _always_ be forgiven, so long as he didn’t strain himself trying to work out what to say, Jaskier found himself interrupted.

“A friend.”

“What?” Again, Geralt’s utterances weren’t making sense. Confused, Jaskier asked, “A friend?”

“You are,” bit out Geralt, colour blooming high on his cheekbones. In his chest, Jaskier’s heart practically stopped. “You are… my friend.”

“Oh, Geralt…” Jaskier whispered, tilting his head to the side. Before him, soaked to the bone and icy-white, Geralt hung his head. Tense shoulders were drawn up practically around his ears, his back as stiff as it was when they walked through hostile towns. Here Geralt was, holding himself as he did when he was verbally attacked, verbally abused, and Jaskier _hated_ it. Stepping forward, he placed his thin fingers under Geralt’s chin, tilted his head up as he stroked his skin softly. Fear burned in the witcher’s eyes, and Jaskier murmured softly, “You are my friend, too.”

For some reason, when Jaskier said that, Geralt reached up with gloved hands, aiming for Jaskier’s hood. Hurriedly, Jaskier stumbled backwards, pale fingers clutching at the dark material, keeping it low on his face.

At Jaskier’s movement, Geralt made a startled sound, as if he’d been punched in the stomach, winded. It made him wince to hear it, but there was nothing he could do. Geralt could not see him like this, not if he wanted their make-up to continue, not if he didn’t want the witcher to turn on him, spit on him as a liar, a coward. Twenty-two years was a long time, even for an immortal, no matter how they always denied it. Twenty-two years of keeping a secret such as Jaskier’s was twenty-two years too many.

“Sorry,” Jaskier laughed, waving his ringed hand as if batting away a fly. “I’m a mess. Don’t want you to see my hair, not in this weather.” He let out another strangled laugh, echoing false between the silent sentries of the trees. “It’s all frizzy, I’m sure.”

“I don’t care about your hair,” Geralt huffed, stepping closer again. “I’ve seen it wet before.”

“So you have,” Jaskier noted, holding up his hands to keep Geralt back. Hurt halted Geralt once again, stiffening his frame. Turning his face to the side, letting his eyes fall on the ground just beside him, Jaskier held still. “Then… My nose is tinged pink, and I fear I look dreadful that way.”

“I can see your nose,” Geralt pointed out, the corners of his lips pulling downwards in a frown. Canyons dug themselves into his forehead, creasing his brow. “It’s white.”

“Then—” Jaskier tried, finding himself cut-off by the witcher again.

“Jaskier, let me see your face,” Geralt’s voice was quiet, near desperate. Jaskier didn’t know why it sounded strangled that way, but he did know he would give Geralt anything if the witcher only asked nicely. “Please.”

That was what did it. Every time, that was what did it.

Fingers shaking with fear, limbs trembling with the need to run, Jaskier reached his hands up. Heart beating double-time in his chest, Jaskier let out a soft huff of air through his nose. Geralt was coming closer, pupils dilated in concern. He could tell Jaskier was scared, could hear the blood pumping through his veins, no doubt. Gulping, Jaskier hooked his stiff fingers around the edges of his hood.

Then, with eyes closed, he lowered it.

Rain poured upon him, chilling the top of his head, causing rivers to pour down his forehead. The tips of his ears tingled in the cold air, quickly pinking. Finally, heart still beating fast in his chest, Jaskier cracked his eyes open, peaked through sheets of water at the witcher standing across from him.

Geralt’s eyes were wide, pupil blown large and dark in shock. Every line of his body was slack, as if he hadn’t been expecting what he saw before him. Jaskier didn’t blame him. Who would have suspected someone as loud as him to be an elf? Who would have suspected someone as undignified as him? Who would have suspected someone who wrote songs such as Toss a Coin for being an elf? No, Jaskier had hid his heritage well. He regretted it now.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked, taking a few more hesitant steps forward. His hands lifted, his gloves coming to cup Jaskier’s cheeks. To his surprise, his fingers didn’t cut in, instead gently guiding him to look into cat-like eyes instead. “What happened to you?”

“I…” he swallowed, closed his eyes, even as his face was held upwards, raindrops mingling with the silent tears on his cheeks. “I took my glamour off.”

“But—” Geralt cut himself off. Dropping his hands to Jaskier’s shoulders, he asked, “How old are you?”

Laughing wetly, Jaskier shook his head, admitted, “I really am only forty. I was really only eighteen when we met.”

“And you’re an elf?” Geralt asked, voice sounding a little thick, almost as if something were catching in his throat.

“Yes,” Jaskier tried to swallow, but his throat clicked instead, dry despite all the water pouring from the heavens. “I lied to you.” Bowing his head, he breathed out, so quiet only a witcher could hear it, “I’m sorry.”

To his surprise, Geralt’s hands travelled from his shoulders, cupping around his neck. No pressure was applied, only two thumbs placed under his chin, tilting his head back. Slit-pupiled eyes stared into his own too-blue ones, searching for something, though Jaskier didn’t know what.

“You aren’t human,” Geralt informed him, somewhat redundantly. Jaskier couldn’t help the soft, strangled laugh that escaped him. Almost impulsively, Geralt let more words escape him, ones that Jaskier had never thought he’d hear from the other man. “Come with me.”

Excitement got his heart to racing again. Fearing that Geralt would assume him scared once more, Jaskier reached up, stroked his thumbs over Geralt’s cheekbones.

“I want to,” Jaskier promised him, offering him a sad smile. Geralt’s eyes fell closed, his chin dipping as if he already knew what Jaskier’s answer would be. Trying to dissuade him of that notion, Jaskier patted his cheek gently, told him, “I will come with you, if you promise me something.”

“What?” Geralt asked, sounding somewhat wary. It made Jaskier smile, to know that even now, Geralt was still Geralt. No matter the situation, he wouldn’t promise anything, not unless he knew what it was, what the cost was going to be. Somewhere along the line, he’d learned his lesson about the consequences of blindly agreeing to things, Jaskier knew.

Huffing out a soft laugh, he felt the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. Brow lifted, just slightly, he grinned at Geralt, just wide enough to show off his sharp canines.

“Nothing much,” Jaskier whispered, conscious of Cirilla’s eyes upon his back, from where she still sat on Roach. “Just… Promise me we won’t be like we were before. Promise me you’ll admit I’m your friend.”

An almost constipated look arose on Geralt’s face, and Jaskier’s breath caught. Had he pushed his witcher too far? But no. It seemed that the man was struggling to get words out again, searching through them in his mind, desperate to find the right ones. On Jaskier’s neck, his fingers flexed, the course material of his gloves setting Jaskier’s skin to itching.

Eventually, Geralt seemed to come to some kind of conclusion. To Jaskier’s surprise, he leaned close, then closer still, until his clammy-skinned forehead was pressed to Jaskier’s own. This close, he could smell the metallic tang of Geralt’s swords, the leather of his armour, even the smell of Roach, clinging to him. With his newly unleashed elven senses, he could even smell the faint scent of the sea, Cirilla’s Cintran salt smell clinging to Geralt’s skin.

Shockingly, at least for Jaskier, Geralt broke the silence that had fallen between them.

“I admit to more than that,” his voice was so low Jaskier barely heard it himself, low enough that even Roach wouldn’t be able to hear them, despite how all-knowing that mare was. “Anything, Jaskier. _Everything_. Whatever you want.”

“You know what I want,” Jaskier whispered back, his breath so close it brushed across Geralt’s lips, causing them to twitch. His face was warmed by the witcher’s breath, mingling with his own. Still, his body was trembling, freezing in the poor weather, the gathering dark. It was almost pitch out, now, the twilight giving way to full dark. It’s cover gave Jaskier the courage to say what he needed to, “You know what I’ve always wanted.”

“I do,” Geralt acknowledged, dipping his chin slightly. His nose brushed against Jaskier’s, just as wet and cold as his own. “You can have it.”

“Only if you want it, Geralt,” Jaskier murmured, closing his eyes against the blur of Geralt’s face. It wasn’t fair, the way the witcher was making him feel this way, wasn’t fair that the witcher was giving him hope. “I only want this if you want it. Truly want it, I mean. I won’t force you into anything.”

“I do,” Geralt’s voice was low, gravelly, but it didn’t sound angry. No, to Jaskier’s emotionally trained ears, there seemed to be want there, curling at the back of the witcher’s throat, announcing itself tentatively to the bard. “I have. For years.”

“Then why now?” he had to ask, had to know.

Geralt had had twenty-two years to make this move – Jaskier couldn’t make it himself, he _had_ to let Geralt come to him – and the witcher hadn’t. Now, after only an hour or so since finding him, Geralt was ready to throw his lot in with an elven bard that no longer had a glamour, ready to tie their destinies together through the bond of love, of a relationship. Why?

The witcher hummed low in his chest, slid his hands up just a little further, just until he could brush at the tears still leaking from Jaskier’s eyes, wiping them away with his thumbs. Jaskier wasn’t surprised Geralt had known he was crying; salt water smelt different from rain water, and the witcher’s nose was excellent, even better than an elf’s.

When Geralt finally opened his mouth, licking his lips, readying his words, he admitted, “You would have died.”

“I still might,” Jaskier pointed out, tilting his head to the side. Forehead still pressed against Geralt’s, they slipped and slid against each other with the movement, noses bumping. It was too cold for it to be painful, their faces numb, but there was enough force behind it that it should have been. “I really am as careless about walking into danger as I appear.”

Near permanently down-tilted corners of lips tilted upwards, Geralt giving a tiny, seemingly adoring, smile.

“I meant—” Geralt swallowed, pulled back a little, just enough that they could see each other’s faces clearly through the sheet of rain that was still falling. “You were human. You would only have a few more decades. I wanted… more.”

“How much more?” Jaskier asked, winding his fingers into ragged, rain-soaked hair.

“Forever.”

As Jaskier was gasping at that, Geralt leaned forward, placed his lips softly over Jaskier’s. Having expected it, Jaskier was ready, and he leant forward with a soft groan, pressing himself against Geralt. Warmth shot through him where they touched, his heart beginning to beat faster with his joy, his excitement.

To his pleasure, Geralt dropped his hands from Jaskier’s face, slipping them down over his chest and inside the twin cloaks he wore, wrapping them around his now slimmer waist. Fingers dug into his back, tightening their grip when Geralt deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue along the seams of Jaskier’s lips, begging entry.

Give it, Jaskier did, opening his mouth to allow Geralt’s tongue to slide in, to tangle with his own, to run along his teeth. Glad that Ciri was directly behind him, not subjected to watching them, Jaskier leaned forwards, let the witcher take his weight as his own knees began to buckle in his happiness.

Before long, Jaskier had to pull back, teeth chattering against the cold still. He was smiling too much to continue kissing anyway, and he knew when he leaned away that his eyes were twinkling at Geralt, knew because joy flashed behind Geralt’s own golden ones, darkened as they were by his witcher’s dilated pupils.

“Come with us,” Geralt repeated, not out of breath, but voice a little husky. Pressed tightly to Geralt as he was, Jaskier could feel the excitement coursing through the witcher even through his armour, thrumming in every muscle. “Come with us to Kaer Morhen.”

“But…” biting his lip, Jaskier glanced back, saw Ciri watching him. Curious eyes were focused on his ears, dipping down every now and then to glance at what must have appeared as a hunch, his lute case ruining the line of his cloaks. Carefully, he reached up, curled his fingers round the strap, and turned back to Geralt. “I need a new glamour. I can’t go out in public, not like this.”

“We’ll find a mage on the way,” Geralt promised, taking a small step back from Jaskier.

As he moved, cold air rushed in between them, and Jaskier found himself shuddering. Hoping to keep warm, he stepped forward, back into the witcher’s shelter – though not heat; with a slower heart, Geralt ran cooler than him – and pressed himself against Geralt’s chest. A soft snort sounded above him, warm air brushing across the top of his rain-tangled hair.

Licking his lips, tasting Geralt still on his tongue, Jaskier looked up, nodded.

“Okay,” he said, finding a smile spreading across his face. Excitement was bubbling up in his chest, a pleased crow wanting to free itself from his throat. He’d never been to Kaer Morhen, had never been invited, but here Geralt was, telling Jaskier he wanted him to come with him, wanted him to meet his family, his brothers, his father figure. Grin spread wide, Jaskier nodded again, skin around his eyes crinkling. “Okay, I’ll come.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathed out, then leaned forwards to press a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead.

There they stayed, pressed together, for just a few moments more, before Jaskier shuffled away again.

Just breathing Ciri’s name caught Geralt’s attention, and his eyes snapped from Jaskier to the girl, still sitting astride Roach, looking thoroughly drenched. Jaskier watched in fascination as Geralt’s pupils slimmed looking at her, though his face somehow softened further. The princess was good for him, Jaskier could tell, and he already knew he’d do whatever it took to protect them both.

Smiling at his witcher, Jaskier moved to stand beside him, keeping pace as he led them both back to Roach, to the princess.

Taking the reins in his hands, Geralt began leading Roach on, heading in a definite direction. Jaskier assumed he knew where better shelter was, so he kept pace, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Geralt. The witcher continued facing forwards, not even glancing at Jaskier, but from the tension in his shoulders, Jaskier figured that Geralt was worrying over something, still.

Chancing a guess, he reached out, brushing his fingers gently across Geralt’s elbow, murmuring in a low voice, “I’ll follow you to Kaer Morhen and beyond. I’ll follow you anywhere, Geralt.”

“Hmm,” Geralt acknowledged. From his vantage point, Jaskier could see the tell-tale gold in the corner of Geralt’s eye, telling him that the witcher was glancing at him. The lines of his shoulders had dropped just slightly, though, enough that Jaskier knew Geralt had got the message. There was nowhere the witcher could go that he wouldn’t follow, no path he would take that Jaskier wouldn’t also walk with him. After a brief pause, Geralt said, “Next spring, the coast.”

At that, Jaskier felt his smile stretching wider, making the cheeks of his numb face ache. Geralt had just promised to follow him, in his own way, and it made his heart feel like it was swelling to twice its original size. He hadn’t know he could love this emotionally stunted man any more than he already did, and yet there Geralt was, making it happen.

Despite the rain, the cold, the shivers wracking his frame, Jaskier felt warm, loved. Fingers tucked under his lute strap, drenched cloak slapping wetly at his shins, he let himself skip along beside his witcher, ignoring the squelching of soggy mulch under his shoes.

For the first time since the mountain, Jaskier felt hope for the future. For the first time since the mountain, Jaskier felt happy. For the first time since the mountain, Jaskier felt like he was _home_.


End file.
